


only song I want to hear

by shadowen



Series: soul meets body [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint, Domestic, First Kiss, Gender Dysphoria, Get Together, I REGRET NOTHING, Kid Fic, M/M, Protective Phil, Sequel, Slow Build, baby doing baby things, parenting is hard, so many hugs, trans Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wondered if it was possible to suffer a fatal overdose of adoration. If it was, Marian's first word was going to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only song I want to hear

**Author's Note:**

> All of the thanks to raiining, peppermintwhisp, and westgate for the baby fact checking, and to hoosierbitch for being the world's most patient beta.
> 
> Warning for a few brief references to **child abuse** and **sexual assault**.

Clint had never in his life imagined it was possible to love anything as much as he loved Marian. Everytime she squirmed in his arms or blinked her big dark eyes or spit up curdled milk on his shoulder, he loved her more. It hollowed him out and filled him up until he thought he'd burst. Then she would reach out with one tiny hand and grasp at the end of his nose with her delicate fingers, and Clint would have to find room for even more love.

He wondered if it was possible to suffer a fatal overdose of adoration. If it was, her first word was going to kill him.

At the moment, Marian's attention was fixed entirely on her new surroundings, looking around in fascination. To be fair, Clint was doing the exact same thing as Coulson ushered them into the apartment.

"When you said you were taking care of it, I thought you meant... Okay, I don't know what I thought you meant, but it wasn't this," Clint said, peering into one of the bedrooms. "Oh my god, you got her a crib?" He looked back to find Coulson smiling broadly. 

"I take it you approve?"

" _Approve_? Coulson, this is amazing!" Clint darted across the hall into the second bedroom. "And _huge_. There's no way I can afford this."

"You don't have to," Coulson said, still smiling. "The rent has been requisitioned as a medically necessitated housing expense, and utilities are included. The only things you have to pay for are electricity and cable."

Clint gaped. "How the fuck is all this medically necessary?" 

Whatever promises Coulson had made about SHIELD taking care of its agents, Clint hadn’t fully believed it until he wound up in the hospital with a gunshot wound, a c-section, and a tiny, fragile, brand new human. After more than a month of being trapped in white rooms and blank hallways, father and daughter had been released with instructions and well-wishes, and the nurse had responded with blank confusion to Clint’s questions about payment. She’d explained patiently that all expenses incurred in treatment and recovery were covered by his insurance, up to and including any changes to his living situation.

"Well, you clearly can't keep an infant in the academy dorm, and you're going to need help caring for her until your injury is healed." Coulson had been pulling a wheeled purple suitcase full of the various baby supplies Clint and Marian had accumulated during their hospital stay, and he hauled it onto the bed in the first bedroom, unpacking the items neatly. "The easiest thing to do is have someone stay full-time for a while, hence the size of the apartment. Eventually, you'll have to start paying for it yourself or find someplace more suitable, but I'm sure I can extend the requisition until you're making a full agent's salary."

Clint frowned, and Marian gurgled, waving a tiny arm at Coulson. The place was obviously new, fully furnished, and bigger than anyplace Clint had ever lived, excluding his tenure in the foster system. He should have known Coulson would find a way to give him more than he needed, but this was even further above and beyond than usual. "You're not going to get in trouble over this, are you?"

"Only if someone audits my requisitions," Coulson replied. "No one ever audits my requisitions."

"Good to know." Clint took a small blanket out of the suitcase and spread it out on the bed, carefully laying Marian down in the middle. She flailed happily, blowing spit bubbles and trying to turn herself over. Coulson paused in his unpacking to tickle her stomach, and she gave a squeal of delight, grasping at his hand.

Clint had seen Coulson smile more in the weeks since Marian's birth than he had in all the months before, and he was grinning now with peaceful happiness. If there was anyone in the world who might love Marian as much as Clint did, it was Coulson. 

"Are you gonna be the one to stay?" Clint asked, stretching out on the bed next to Marian's blanket. Even carrying her the short distance from the car had worn him out and left his side aching. He wasn't going to argue the point that he might need some extra help for a while.

"I... can be," Coulson said slowly. "I was only planning to stay until you could arrange someone with more appropriate expertise."

"Meaning someone who actually likes kids?" Clint teased.

"Meaning someone with medical training and experience dealing with young children." Coulson was looking thoughtfully at Marian as he spoke, and she stared back at him, transfixed by his voice. "But I'm happy to help in any way that I can."

"Don't wanna be an inconvenience, or anything," Clint said, letting Marian try to grasp one of his fingers in her small grip. "Just don't know that I'd want anyone else living here. Especially a stranger."

"I suppose that's understandable," Coulson answered in that neutral voice that meant he was trying to keep something from coming through. "I'll make arrangements."

"Awesome." Clint gave him a pleased grin and turned to Marian. "Isn't that awesome, kid? Poppa Phil's gonna be your nanny."

"I am neither your _poppa_ nor your _nanny_ ," Coulson informed Marian solemnly. "I am your godfather, and I'm doing my job."

Marian made a face of intense concentration and gurgled, squeezing the end of Clint's finger. This was immediately followed by a burst of putrid odor that made both Clint and Coulson draw back in disgust.

"I take it back. You're on your own," Coulson said, holding a hand over his nose.

"Run. Run while you still can," Clint agreed, rolling away from Marian. "Aw, geez, kid."

The smell got worse when Coulson opened up her diaper. "Christ in a crack pipe, how can something so small produce _that_?"

"Here, lemme do the diaper shit," Clint said, ignoring the twinge in his muscles as he sat up. "That's totally not your job."

"Actually, it is," Coulson told him, already reaching for the necessary supplies. "Changing diapers is an integral part of a godfather's duties. I looked it up."

Clint squinted at him. "You did not."

"I did." Coulson paused to deposit the disgusting diaper in the bathroom trashcan, then added, "I also spent a summer working at a daycare, which is both how I know how to change a diaper and why I generally can't stand children." Marian grunted, and Coulson assured her, "Well not you, obviously."

Clint laid back on the bed, laughing despite the ache it caused. "Oh god, I can just picture it. Little teenage Phil surrounded by screaming babies."

"That's a fairly accurate summary, as far as I remember." When the clean diaper was securely in place, Coulson gave Marian's feet a playful tug. "There now. Is that better?"

She blew spit and kicked at his hands, and Clint grinned. "She's gonna be a handful when she figures out how to walk."

"I think we have a few tribulations to deal with before then," Coulson said ominously. "The first of which being her next meal, which she'll probably start asking for soon."

"Oh right. Food is a thing that should happen." On cue, Clint's stomach gave a small rumble, and he sighed. "Guess I oughta eat something before she empties me out."

"Here." Coulson handed him a protein bar out of a pocket in the suitcase. "That should keep you for now. I thought I'd get us pizza for dinner."

"How are you even real?" Clint demanded as Coulson started arranging pillows so that Clint could lean comfortably against the headboard. "Seriously. Are you a perfect human being or are you hiding some dark, secret flaw?" He fixed Coulson with a probing stare. "Are you the reincarnation of Captain America? You can tell me if you are."

Coulson just shook his head, smiling, and helped Clint sit back against the pillows, settling Marian gently in Clint's arms once he was situated and the protein bar was gone, then went into the next room to order dinner. After a minute, Marian started to fuss, and Clint dutifully opened his shirt and got into Milk Bags Mode, as he had come to call it.

He hadn't been able to wear his binder since he'd been shot, and the presence of his breasts had been a constant reminder of what he was and wasn't and couldn't be, even more than his pregnancy had been. His skin had always been ill-fitting, and he had clung desperately to whatever illusions he could create, whatever affectations he could put on to make him feel more like who he was supposed to be. Over the last few months, most of those comforts had been stripped away, leaving him exposed and off-balance.

If Clint could have wished for anything, it would have been to love this as much as he loved everything else about Marian. He wanted to take pleasure in feeding her, providing for her, being this close and this connected, but the pressure of her mouth around his nipple filled him with such deep, cold revulsion that Clint had to detach himself from the situation entirely. He went away in his head, let that part of himself become just another tool for taking care of her, and shut his heart away from the disgust.

When she was finished, he covered up and hugged her close against his chest, feeling her fragile heartbeat and her soft breath, letting her ground him and draw him back into himself. Finally, he brushed a soft kiss against the top of her head and whispered, "Love you, kid."

She was fast asleep in moments, and Clint managed to climb to his feet and lay her gently in her new crib. Exhausted, Clint didn’t bother getting back to the pillows; he just sprawled over the end of the bed and was asleep himself by the time the pizza arrived.

***

Among the many other shitty things about being deaf was the fact that Clint was surrounded by devices designed to get his attention as quickly and obnoxiously as possible. Everything flashed and vibrated and scared the crap out of him. This included, of course, the baby monitor. 

It was tied to his alarm clock, and the first time it went off, Clint hit the snooze button and was confused when the buzzing didn't stop. By the time he woke up enough to figure it out, Marian had worked herself into a frenzy, kicking and screaming as much as her tiny body could manage. When he picked her up, he could feel all her muscles shaking, and he was suddenly glad he couldn't hear what must be an ear-splitting screech.

"Ssh, baby. It's okay," he soothed, pitching his voice low and even. "What's the matter, kid? You hungry? You're probably hungry."

The door swung open, and Coulson stumbled in, looking just as disoriented and panicked as Clint felt. He said something, but Clint couldn't make it out. Clint turned to face him straight on. "What?"

"Is she okay?" Coulson asked, forming the words clearly in the dim room.

"Well, she's not happy about something." Clint patted her bottom carefully. No diaper trouble. "Do you want food? Is that your problem? Let's get you some food." He suppressed a shudder and sat down on the bed, maneuvering her into position, but she refused the nipple he offered and kept wailing. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Holding her gently in the crook of his arm, he tried rubbing soothing circles on her chest and stomach, but her face stayed twisted in a rictus of misery. In his own silence, Clint felt disconnected from her. There was nothing in her face to read, no touch or movement to tell him what she needed; her only communication was an unending sound that didn’t even reach him.

Coulson touched his shoulder lightly and gestured for him to hand Marian over, which Clint did gladly. Bouncing her lightly against his chest, Coulson started walking in slow circles around the room. By the time Clint had grabbed her pacifier from the nightstand and slid on his hearing aids, the crying had abated into breathless sniffles and sleepy hiccups.

"The hell did you do?" Clint whispered, afraid of disturbing the sudden peace.

"Some babies just like to move around," Coulson replied, still making circuits of the room. He gave Clint a soft smile over Marian's fuzzy head. "Guess she does take after you."

Clint rolled his eyes. "How do you even know that? About babies."

Coulson shrugged. "I looked it up."

"You did not," Clint said, but Coulson just nodded. "When? In the two seconds between her screaming and you coming in here?"

"While you were in the hospital," Coulson answered. Marian squirmed in his arms, and he shushed her quietly, rubbing little circles on her back, before he went on, "I had a lot of time, and I didn't want to be completely lost, so I did research. I honestly didn't expect it to be this useful." 

Clint had to wonder how someone went about researching "how to be an awesome parent", but he was too exhausted to even think about reading. "So are you just gonna walk her around in circles all night?" 

"Until she falls back asleep, at least," Coulson said. Marian already seemed to be relaxing against his chest, her restless kicking turning into small stretches. "That's it, sweetheart. I know you're tired. That's it." 

She gave a last tiny yawn and went still in his arms. "I'll be damned," Clint breathed as Coulson laid her gently in her crib. "You're a fucking baby whisperer." 

"It's not dissimilar to working with junior agents." Coulson gave him a tired smile and sank onto the bed beside him. "Stay calm and pretend to know what you're doing." 

Clint stifled a laugh. “Is that your secret? Faking it?”

“I think that’s everybody’s secret,” Coulson replied. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair and, for a moment, looked ten years younger, his handsome face relaxed in the low light streaming from the open door. “I should get back to bed. Shout if you need anything?”

“The kid’ll probably do enough shouting for both of us.” Clint jerked his head toward the crib where Marian was still miraculously silent.

“Let’s hope not.” With a comforting touch on Clint’s shoulder, Coulson stood. “Good night.”

“Night.”

The door closed slowly and quietly, plunging the room back into darkness except for the small glow of the nightlight. Clint sighed and got up for one last look into the crib, just to check. Marian was sprawled on her back with one tiny hand curled up beside her head, her stomach rising and falling with each deep breath. She was so perfect and incredible, and Clint had to stand and stare for a moment just to remind his heart how to beat. 

Finally, he made himself move and climb back into bed. Just as he was reaching to take out his hearing aids, there came a quiet, hiccupping sob.

Clint froze and prayed silently to whatever gods watched over peaceful babies and desperate parents for just a few hours of rest, but the sob turned into a whine, which then grew into a wail. By the time he had her in his arms, she was back to full blown screaming, loud enough to create feedback in the closest hearing aid.

“Aw, c’mon, kid. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he soothed, walking in slow circles and rocking her gently, just as Coulson had done, but she just went right on crying and squirming against him. “What’s the matter, huh? You don’t need a diaper, and you’re not hungry, so what’s wrong?”

Marian paused to gulp down a few choking breaths, then let out a fresh shriek, right into his ear.

“Oh, geez. What is it? You know everything’s okay, right?” It was hard to sound comforting when he had to talk over her screaming, but he tried, still walking and rubbing her back gently. “You’re alright, all safe and sound. Nothing’s gonna get you, not with me and Poppa Phil. ‘Cause we love you, you know that? We love you more than anything in the world, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

If the abstract concepts of love and safety meant anything to Marian, she gave no sign and kept crying, slowing occasionally to catch her breath. Clint couldn’t help but be impressed with her lung capacity, even as his sigh of frustration turned into a yawn.

“Come on, sweetheart. You gotta sleep sometime,” he pleaded.

There was a soft knock on the door, barely audible over the baby’s distress, and Coulson stuck his head in. “Still not settled, huh?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Clint whined. He felt heavy with helplessness and exhaustion, like he would fall over at any moment still trying to comfort his sobbing child.

“Could be cholic,” Coulson said, coming to look at her as Clint continued his slow pacing. “Maybe she’s sore or bored or just doesn’t want to be left alone.” He glanced from Marian to Clint and frowned. “Let me take over for a minute.”

Clint handed her over without protest, grateful for the respite. The moment she was in Coulson’s arms, the volume of her screams lessened and steadily subsided into little gasps until she was just burbling and kicking restlessly.

Clint gaped at Coulson with equal parts relief and dismay. “Holy shit,” he said, and a strange weight settled in his stomach. “Well, I guess we know who she likes best.”

“She probably just likes my soap,” Coulson murmured, his broad hand spread over Marian’s tiny chest as he rocked her. “Is that it, baby girl? Do I smell better than your daddy?”

Marian gave a small snort and grasped at the front of Coulson’s t-shirt, and Clint watched them with a distant sense of emptiness. He’d never been naive enough to think that he was actually prepared to be a father, but every day made him feel more and more like he was drowning. Meanwhile Coulson, who was only here out of affection and charity, was knocking it out of the park just by generally being himself.

Clint sighed and gathered up his pillow. “Maybe you should just stay in here in case she wakes up again. I’ll go camp out on the couch.”

“What? No. That’s ridiculous.” Coulson gave him an odd look, then reached down to lay Marian gently in her crib. “Why don’t we both stay here? That way she had whoever she needs.”

Clint hesitated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shared a bed with anyone. “You don’t have to do that. You gotta get a little bit of sleep.”

“So do you,” Coulson pointed out, settling in and pulling up the covers. He paused and looked uncertainly at Clint. “Unless... I mean, I can stay with her if you... if you’re not comfortable being... having someone else in the bed with you. Obviously, the other room is open; you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“No, I can... I want to...” Clint sighed. He knew it would be alright, that Coulson wasn’t going to hurt him, and he was sure in his bones that Coulson would cut off his own hands before he’d let anything happen to Marian. This room, this bed, was safe. 

He took a step toward the bed, then turned back to close the door. After a moment’s thought, he rifled through the night stand for the barricade cable and fixed the two disks on either side of the door. It was ridiculous, but it lightened some of the weight in Clint’s stomach as he climbed back into bed.

Coulson didn’t say anything, just gave Clint one more tired smile and closed his eyes, apparently drifting immediately off to sleep. Clint let out a slow breath, careful to keep himself squarely on his side of the bed, and quickly followed suit.

Marian woke up again an hour later to eat and again after that with a dirty diaper then one more time for good measure before the alarm went off.

Lather, rinse, repeat, every night for a week until Coulson stopped pretending that he was ever going to sleep in his own bed, and Clint’s uselessness continued to be highlighted. No matter what he did or how careful he was, Marian refused to settle in his arms. Even when she ate, she’d start crying again the moment she was finished until Coulson picked her up, rocking and soothing and doing everything Clint had done but with one hundred percent more success.

So Clint was denied both regular sleep and the satisfaction of being able to comfort his own daughter. Awesome.

***

The only thing more astonishing than the rate at which Marian grew was the rate at which she went through diapers and all attendant paraphernalia. She had also, to Coulson's particular horror, entered a phase of oral fixation, and found great joy in putting her mouth on absolutely everything she could reach.

"No, no, no, darling. Please don't chew on that." Coulson eased the plastic buckle gently out of her grip and tucked it under the cushion of her carrier. Marian grinned happily and proceeded to suck on her own toes instead. Shoes were a battle lost before it began.

"The fuck does _hypoallergenic_ mean?" Clint asked, staring at the wall of diaper options. Coulson typically did the shopping, for which Clint was infinitely grateful.

"Language," Coulson reminded him. "It means there's nothing in it that can cause an allergic reaction."

"Do we need that?" Clint frowned. "And why do those cost more than the regular ones? Can't cost that much more to make 'em."

"We do, actually. I'm allergic to latex." Coulson pointed past him to another shelf. "Don't get those, though. Get the ones with the green label. The big pack. No, Marian, that's not for chewing either."

Clint grabbed the big green pack of diapers and glanced at the price. "Holy shit."

A woman leading a toddler glared at him, and Coulson called out reflexively, "Language."

"Do you know how much these cost?" Clint shook the pack for emphasis. "It's fu- futzing criminal. No wonder my parents hated me. Must've sh- pooped them out of house and home."

A shadow always crossed Coulson’s face when Clint mentioned his own childhood, but he never commented. This time, he started rifling through the pockets of Marian’s diaper bag. “Did we bring her teething ring?”

“The chew toy? Yeah, it’s in the... No, in the other pocket.” Clint pointed to the opposite side of the bag, and Coulson pulled out the little rubbery shape. Marian wasn’t teething yet, but she’d gotten bored of the pacifier and needed something to occupy her.

“Don’t call it a chew toy. She’s not a puppy,” Coulson said, even though they both knew it was absolutely a chew toy. “And don’t worry about the diapers. It’s worth the cost to make sure she doesn’t get diaper rash and I don’t break out in hives.”

“Sure it’s worth it. I just don’t know if I can afford it.” Clint tossed the diapers into the cart and ran through calculations in his head. “I mean, we could get the wipes from the dollar store, I guess, but they smell like bleach and make everything sticky. If we don’t get any bread or cheese, that would make up the difference on the diapers, but th-”

“Clint,” Coulson cut him off gently. “Don’t worry about it.” Clint opened his mouth to answer, but Coulson stopped suddenly. “Shit. Shelves.”

Marian made a cooing sound, and Clint whispered loudly to her, “See? It’s not just me.”

"We forgot the shelves for the bedroom, but now there's no room in the cart." Coulson looked thoughtfully back at the other end of the store. "I could just come back for them later."

Clint rolled his eyes and detached Marian's carrier, lifting it and the diaper bag out of the cart. "There, now there's room. Me and the kid'll just take a break while you go shelf-hunting."

Coulson frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Your hesitation to leave me alone in public is as touching as it is pointless," Clint said dryly. "Go. We'll be up front when you're done."

"Alright." To Marian, Coulson said seriously, "Keep your daddy out of trouble, okay?"

Marian grinned and waved her spit-covered toy at him, her dark eyes tracking intently as he walked away. "Your poppa's a worry wort, you know that?" Clint told her, swinging around toward the front of the store. "Guess we give him plenty of reason to worry, but still. Nobody's gonna mess with you while I'm around, and you'll protect me from the assholes, won't you?" She stared up at him and chewed on the ends of her fingers. "That's what I thought."

Normally, Coulson did the shopping on his own or used a delivery service, but Clint had recovered enough to brave the wilds of the super market. Public spaces always made his stomach tighten, but having Marian helped ease his tension a little. He'd been surprised to learn that an alert and happy baby made for pretty good company, and Clint kept himself thoroughly entertained by wiggling his fingers at Marian and giving her tiny high-fives.

"He is _adorable_."

Clint looked up to find a woman standing nearby, beaming at him. "Uh, thanks."

"Is he yours?" she asked, and Clint pushed down the instinct to fight as she leaned closer to inspect Marian, who regarded the newcomer with uncertain curiosity.

"Sure is." Clint tried for a conversational tone and managed to sound non-aggressive, at least. 

"Look at those gorgeous eyes!" the woman cooed. "What's his name?"

Telling his child's name to a stranger seemed like an incredibly stupid thing to do, given Clint's occupation, and he answered, "Jean."

"Jean. Oh, I love it. So old fashioned." She waggled a finger in Marian's face, and Clint felt a spark of satisfaction when Marian refused to react. "After his grandfather?"

It took Clint a moment to understand the question, in part because he would never in a thousand years think of naming a child after his own father. "Uh, no."

The woman paused, clearly expecting more of an answer. When none came, she went on, "Oh, well it's a handsome name for a handsome little man. Are you waiting for your mommy to finish shopping, little man?”

Marian gave a tiny hiccup, dribbling some spit onto her chin, and Clint cleared his throat. “Waiting for a friend,” he said. “There’s, uh, there’s no mom. Just me.”

Enough time had passed that the roundness of pregnancy had ebbed, and he could wear his binder for short stretches. He had always passed easily enough, which he suspected would help ease the passage as he waded deeper into the waters of parenthood, despite the occasional need to explain that, yes, he had given birth to Marian but, no, he was not her mother. 

The woman’s face lit up, at odds with the sympathetic tone as she said, “You poor thing. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be, raising a little one all on your own, but you seem so good with him.”

Clint shifted uncomfortably, wishing desperately that Coulson would hurry up and get there. “I mean, I’ve got help."

"Oh, good!" She was still leaning close over Marian, and it took all Clint's restraint not to push her away. "It takes a village, you know. Or at least a family. I've got two boys, and I never could have done it by myself. Of course, their dad's still around, but you can't count on ex-husbands for anything."

"Uh huh," Clint agreed vaguely. He wondered if normal people were always this free with personal information. 

"You seem awfully young to be divorced," the woman remarked. "And this little guy can't be more than a few months."

Clint frowned. "I'm not divorced."

"Oh." The woman blinked. "I'm sorry. You said the mother was gone, and I assumed..."

A cold spike of panic went through Clint's chest. "Th- There's no mother. It's just... I mean..."

"There you are!" Clint jumped as Coulson appeared beside him, pushing the cart full of plastic bags. "Ready to go?"

He gave the woman a cool, friendly smile, and she straightened quickly. “I was just saying what a beautiful baby your friend has.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say,” Coulson replied cheerfully. “We think she’s gorgeous, but we may be a little biased.”

“She?” The woman looked from Marian to Clint in horror. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! You should have said something. I didn’t mean to suggest... It’s just so hard to tell at that age, and with the purple blanket...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Clint said, standing as Coulson lifted the carrier carefully into the shopping cart.

“She’s only just learning to move her head,” Coulson agreed. “I think it’ll be a while before she decides what pronouns she prefers.”

The woman let out a bark of uncertain laughter, as if to ease the tension of a tasteless comment. “Well,” she said lightly, but whatever sentence was meant to follow never formed.

Clint wanted to sink into the ground and vanish, but Coulson seemed to take some strange joy in making the woman uncomfortable. “We’re using the feminine for now, but we hope to introduce some flexibility as she gains verbal skills,” he went on. “Of course, she’s developing so quickly, and her father is a genius, so that might be sooner, rather than later.” He laid a hand on the back of Clint’s neck as he spoke, not firm or possessive, but soft, warm, and welcome as it settled the cold fear churning in Clint’s chest. 

The woman’s eyes widened, just enough to register surprise and disapproval, and she took half a step back. “Well,” she said again. This time, she followed it with, “Well, I suppose you’re entitled.” She managed a tight smile to Clint and added, “It was nice to meet you. Take care.”

Clint only barely resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at her as she turned on her heel and walked away. To Coulson, he said, “Thanks for the rescue.”

Coulson grumbled something under his breath and let his hand fall away from Clint’s neck, leaving a patch of skin that was suddenly chilled in its absence. “I wasn’t sure if I should intervene, but you looked like you were about to panic.”

Clint wasn’t prepared to admit that aloud, so he asked, “Why wouldn’t you intervene? I mean, a stranger was harassing your baby.”

Coulson gave him a curious look. “Well, she was obviously flirting with you.” At Clint’s blank look, he frowned. “You didn’t know?” Clint shook his head. “I could see her coming onto you from the checkout line.”

There didn’t seem to be any good response to that, and Clint just answered, “Oh.” A thought occurred to him, and he stared at Coulson. “Wait, so you almost didn’t step in because you didn’t wanna _cock block me_?”

The edges of Coulson’s ears turned bright scarlet. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

As they wheeled the cart out of the store, Clint elbowed him playfully. “You’re aware that I don’t actually have a cock to block, right?”

Coulson stopped suddenly outside the sliding glass doors and gave Clint a look of pure shock. “ _What?_ ”

Clint laughed and punched him in the arm, and Coulson gave him a bright smile in reply. Marian watched them with her big, dark eyes, toothless mouth gaping in a wide, delighted grin.

***

Between email and his handful of friends, Clint was able to keep up with his Academy classes until he could start attending on his own again. He got a few sideways glances, but he figured that was fair, since the pregnant guy who got shot was probably a decent subject for gossip. Mostly, he was left to mind his own business, just another oddball recruit in a collection of misfits and maladjusted young people.

It remained astonishing to Clint that a few of those misfits had latched onto him as an object of friendship, and he spent lunch on his first day back being filled in on developments in Carter's cousin's wedding and Wu's adventures in dating. Certain details of the conversation stayed on his mind through the day until that evening at home.

"Can I ask you something kinda personal?"

Coulson gave Clint a curious glance over his shoulder. He was washing Marian in a plastic tub in the sink, trying to contain the mess as she fussed and tried to escape, and Clint had his books spread out on the kitchen bar. The domesticity of it made Clint's heart ache in a way he refused to examine.

"Of course," Coulson said. "Unless the answer is classified, in which case I apologize in advance."

"Do you, y'know, date?"

Coulson gave him another odd look. "Date?"

"Yeah, date. Like, dinner and romance and sex and stuff."

"Well, not recently." Coulson paused. "Or in years, really. The exciting life of a senior agent often precludes other kinds of excitement."

"That must suck," Clint remarked.

Coulson shrugged. "It's a trade off. Saving the world versus getting laid regularly." He turned to smile at Clint, and Marian took advantage of his distraction to make a dive for the edge, tipping the tub so that it sloshed over onto Coulson's slacks. "Oh, for... You're a menace, you know that?" he told Marian. "A tiny, red-headed menace."

She just splashed more water around and flailed one arm at Clint, as if pleading for rescue. Clint shook his head. "Sorry, kid. They tell me personal hygiene is kinda important." To Coulson, he asked, "So do you have a type?"

"A type?"

"Right, a type. Y'know..." Clint backtracked. "Okay, so Wu's dating this girl from biochem, and Amadore was giving him a hard time about how this chick is totally his type and how it's gonna blow up in his face and whatever. And I started thinking... Anyway, it got me thinking, and I was curious."

"About my particular type?" Coulson turned fully back to the sink, apparently considering, and Clint had to pay attention to catch all the words. "I don't know. I suppose I like people who are intelligent, compassionate, interesting. A sense of humor is always nice. Anyone who isn't boring."

Clint thought that sounded like everybody's type, but he didn't say so. "What about the other stuff? Gender, looks, sex, stuff like that?"

"Generally, men or on the masculine end of the spectrum," Coulson replied. "I've been out with women, but there tends to be compatibility with no spark. Looks? Nothing specifically, but I often find myself attracted to people who are a little... rough around the edges. Not so much the clean-cut type."

"Not even Captain America?" Clint teased, grinning.

"I _admire_ Captain America," Coulson corrected him. "My teenage fantasies always featured Bucky Barnes."

Clint laughed. "Okay, I guess that answers the sex question."

Even from behind, he could see the tips of Coulson's ears turn pink. "The sex question is one I prefer to discuss with whoever I'm currently sleeping with, and no one else."

"Oh. Sure. Sorry. I didn't mean to..." Clint ducked his head and went back to his work. "Anyway, I was just curious."

"What about you?"

He looked up to see Coulson wrestling Marian out of the plastic tub and into a large towel. The front of Coulson's clothes were completely soaked, and Clint took pity and went to assist with the drying off. "What about me?"

"What's your type?" Coulson asked. "I know you haven't dated since... well, since Marian, but I don't remember finding any partners when we were looking into you."

Clint shrugged. "Never dated. Never really seemed worth the risk." He remembered very clearly weighing the need for human contact against the risk of being found out, beaten, and raped or simply thrown out on the street. On the few occasions when the former had won out, he’d been reminded that the risk wasn’t worth it.

The shadow that crossed Coulson's expression suggested that he understood, at least insofar as nice, normal people were able to understand the realities of Clint's life. "So if you were to date," Coulson said. "Assuming it was safe and that the person knew all the relevant personal details, what type of person do you think you'd want?"

Clint snorted. "That's a hell of an assumption."

"Not really." Coulson held Marian still while Clint wrapped the towel around her, and she squirmed grumpily against the constriction, trying to wriggle out of Coulson's grip. "You may have had to conceal your gender status in the past, but that's certainly not necessary now. And if anyone was rude or tried to hurt you, obviously I'd be happy to disembowel them with a butter knife," he added cheerfully.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You're a scary guy, you know that?"

"So I've been told." Coulson flashed him a brief grin that only underscored the strange harmony of gentleness and brutality that lived at his core. "Now come on. If you wanted to date, what kind of person would you like?"

"I dunno. Somebody nice?" Clint took Marian, and Coulson trailed after them into the bedroom. "Funny, I guess. Sweet. Gender doesn't matter."

The prospect of putting himself in a stranger's reach, no matter how nice they seemed, no matter what recourse he had if things went wrong, made Clint's blood run cold. 

"And sex?" Coulson prompted, casual in a way that Clint knew meant he was trying to press without pressuring, to give Clint a chance to talk about things he didn't want to talk about.

Laying Marian gently down on her towel, he decided he still didn't want to talk about it, not now, not with his baby girl in his arms. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Coulson, kindly, said nothing.

***

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Abstractly, Clint knew that. It would be years before he fully understood what Coulson did with SHIELD, what it meant to plan and manage operations, but he knew that, eventually, Coulson's responsibilities would take him into the field.

Knowing didn't mean Clint was prepared to be suddenly left alone with a seven-month-old baby or for the strange silence that settled when he had no one to talk to. The apartment, which had slowly filled with the trappings of family life, seemed as huge and empty as it had when he'd first walked through it. 

Coulson, because he thought of everything, organized a SHIELD-approved babysitter to stay with Marian while Clint was at the Academy, and Coulson, because he thought of _everything_ , managed to find the only teenager on the east coast who was a bigger archery nerd than Clint, which made him feel a little better about leaving his infant child alone with a stranger.

The first day, Clint came home that night to find the babysitter, Kate, sprawled on the floor beside Marian, both of them doing army crawls around the living room.

"Oh, hey," Kate said. Instead of standing up in embarrassment, like Clint figured most seventeen-year-olds would, she turned to Marian and said excitedly, "Look who's here! You wanna go see daddy? Let's go see daddy!"

The two of them proceeded to pull themselves slowly across the carpet while Clint kicked off his boots and crouched down to wait as Marian crawled happily, if slowly, toward him. "Come on, kid, you can do it!"

"Heck yeah, she can," Kate told him. "Little squirt's been running me in circles all day. Haven't you, Mia?"

The nickname had emerged at Kate's first visit. When asked to explain, Kate had replied, "Are you kidding? Look at her. She's totally a Mia!" and that had been the end of that.

At last Marian reached Clint, and she squealed as he scooped her into his arms. "Were you good for Miss Katie-Kate? Huh, kid?"

"Oh man, she's the best." Kate climbed to her feet, stretching. "Wears me out, though. I don't know how you and other-dad do it."

"We sleep in shifts," he replied, only partly joking. "And he's not her _other dad_. He's just staying with us until I can manage on my own."

Kate gave him an odd look. "Does he know that?"

Clint paused, and Marian squirmed in his arms, anxious to be moving. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that he seems awfully invested for somebody who knows he's gonna get kicked out." She shrugged. "But whatever. None of my business." She gave Marian a little wave. "Bye, bye, princess! See you tomorrow! Same time?" she asked Clint.

"Yeah, same time," Clint replied, distracted both by Kate's remark and by Marian's increased attempts to escape from his hold, which only grew more intense as the door closed behind Kate. "Alright. You wanna go in your castle so you can roll around?" Coulson had refused to call it a "play pen" on the grounds that it sounded like a containment area for dogs, so "castle" had been adopted as a euphemism.

The moment he set Marian down on the soft blankets inside, she began to roll around the edge of her new domain, pausing to peer through the screened-in sides, until she had made a full circuit. Then she stopped to glare up at Clint and made a demanding sound. 

"What? Are you done already?" Clint reached down to pick her up, but she twisted away with her little baby scowl. "Okay, well..." He cast around for an answer and spotted one of her stuffed animals on the floor. "Here's Piggy. Do you wanna play with Piggy?" 

_Piggy_ wasn't shaped like any kind of animal so much as a soft, fluffy lump with plastic eyes, but it was pink, so they went with pig. Marian expressed her displeasure with Clint's offering by banging her tiny hands on the ground and grunting unhappily.

When all else failed, a snack was usually a serviceable solution, so Clint headed for the kitchen while Marian continued to look around in distress. They'd recently added fruit juice and various mashed things to her diet, to much general delight, but now she knocked away the sippy cup Clint held out for her and began to cry.

"Aw, kid, no. What's the matter?" This time, she let herself be scooped up, but she kept twisting against Clint so that he had to sit down to hold onto her. "C'mon, baby girl, what's wrong, huh?" They'd pretty much gotten past the crying-for-no-reason stage and through the crying-for-attention stage, so most of her crying usually meant something, but Clint was damned if he could figure out what.

It only got worse as the night went on. She would shriek and wail for long stretches, pausing for a few minutes to catch her breath, to eat, and to soil her diaper, then she would fill up her lungs and get right back to it. Clint took out his hearing aids after the first hour and a half. Finally, she cried herself into exhaustion and fell asleep between one sob and the next, leaving Clint at once baffled and relieved.

She started up again the next morning after breakfast and carried on until Kate arrived to take over, at which point Marian’s misery trailed away into small sniffles and hiccups.

“Guess she just likes me better,” Kate teased. “I bet I smell better than your daddy, don’t I? Huh, sweetheart?” She bounced Marian on her hip and got a pleased burble in reply.

Clint rolled his eyes and ignored the heavy feeling in his stomach.

When he came home at the end of the day, Kate and Marian were once again on the floor, this time playing with a pair of plastic cars for which Kate was making _vroom_ noises as Marian squealed in delight.

“How was she?” Clint asked, and he didn’t know what kind of answer would be better or worse.

“She was great! Little fussy this morning, but we had a nap and she was all sunshine.” Grinning, Kate reached over to tickle Marian’s stomach. “Weren’t you, princess? You’re just so sweet and so smart.” To Clint, she said, “You’re gonna have a handful when she learns to walk.”

“Don’t I know it,” Clint replied. Marian was grinning back at Kate, all dimples and gums, and he hated himself for the way his heart sank.

“Okay, Mia, I gotta go. Be good for you daddy.” Kate gave Marian a light kiss on the head and collected her things, breezing past Clint with a friendly, “See you tomorrow!”

Clint was a little fuzzy on the details, but someone in Kate’s family worked for SHIELD, which was how she ended up babysitting for the families of international spies. She seemed to take the strangeness of the job in stride, including the fact that she was only allowed to know Marian’s first name and that Marian was Clint’s daughter. She wasn’t even cleared to know _Clint’s_ name, much less Coulson’s, and she had no idea where Coulson was or what Clint did all day. She was a damn good babysitter, though, and Clint supposed that was all that mattered.

“So you’re feeling better, huh?” Clint asked, crouching down next to Marian, who was still playing happily with her plastic cars. She gave him a little gurgle, then looked toward the door expectantly, turning back to him with a grunt, and suddenly Clint understood. “You’re looking for your Poppa Phil, aren’t you? Well, I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with just me for a little while.”

Marian flailed her arms, banging the little car against the carpet and whining in frustration. She glared at Clint with her big, dark eyes like every evil in the world was entirely his fault, and all his insides crumpled.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Poppa’ll be back soon,” he soothed, but Marian was already working herself up for a good, long cry.

It was a perfect repeat of the night before, but Clint took out his hearing aids much sooner, this time. She’d been sleeping through the night, but Coulson had continued to stay in the room with them, just in case. In spite of himself, Clint had gotten used to having a warm presence in the bed beside him. Now, sleepless and heartsick, he found himself missing Coulson, not just for Marian’s sake but for his own. 

On the third day, he left the academy with a sense of dread that grew heavier as he came closer to home until he felt sick to his stomach. Sure enough, the moment Kate left, Marian launched into her nightly hysterics, and Clint concluded at last that he was simply a failure as a parent.

Just a few more days, he told himself. He just had to keep her safe and healthy for a few more days until Coulson came home, then everything would be alright.

On the fourth day, Kate offered to stay and help him with dinner.

"You look completely wiped," she said. "And your scary not-boyfriend said to make sure you took care of yourself." 

"I'm fine," he snapped. Kate drew back, startled, and Clint sighed. "Sorry. It's just... I'm tired, but I can manage." 

"You sure? I really don't mind." 

Sitting on the floor, Marian was gripping Kate's ankle, as if trying to keep her from leaving. Clint shook his head. "I appreciate it, but we'll be okay. See you tomorrow." 

"Okay. See you. Bye, bye, princess." Kate was frowning as she left, and Clint wondered if he should have taken her offer, if refusing help was just exacerbating his bad parenting. 

The door had hardly shut behind her before Marian started crying. Clint closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Then he sighed and bent down to gather her into his arms. As much as she was driving him crazy, she was still his little girl, and he wasn’t going to leave her to cry on the floor.

Day four was almost identical but with less sleep. On day five, Clint spent half an hour trying to get Marian to stop crying long enough to eat and completely forgot to make dinner for himself. On day six, he put her in her playpen and took a long shower, just to escape the sense of helplessness. He returned to find her sleeping peacefully, snuggled up with Piggy, and he lifted her carefully and moved her to her crib. Once she was down, he sank to the floor, shaking with relief, trying to keep his own tears from seeping out. The price for an early bedtime, though, was an early morning, and Marian met the sunrise on day seven with a miserable wail.

Clint had started taking out his hearing aids as soon as Kate was gone, but even the absence of sound couldn’t block out the crying, not really. He could feel the vibrations from the noise and the miserable trembling of her tiny body. He could see her wet, red cheeks and the lines of anguish in her soft face. Even in the silence, he couldn’t tune out her unhappiness, and he hated himself for wanting to. 

He made it to all his classes, despite dozing off in a few lectures, and he finished all of his work and answered every question. His form in his combat workshop was nearly perfect, and he easily covered any missteps and mistakes. He managed to smile and laugh and talk like a real person every day while his reserves of strength and certainty drained away.

A week. A week of doing this on his own, and Clint was already losing his mind. Lying awake in the empty bed as the seventh day became the eighth, Clint thought, for the first and only time, that he should have given her away. Surely someone else would know what to do, someone better suited to parenthood would be able to soothe her.

The eighth day was a Monday, and Clint came home to find not Kate but Coulson sitting on the floor with Marian, playing peek-a-boo with her purple fleece blanket. There was a bandage down the side of Coulson’s face, covering the center of a dark bruise that swelled over his cheek and around his eye, and one wrist was covered with a plastic brace. Clint stopped dead in the doorway as Marian laughed, and Coulson turned toward him with a bright smile that faded quickly when he saw Clint’s expression.

“Is everything okay?”

“You’re home.” Clint shook his head. “I mean, you’re back. I mean...”

“The op wrapped last night,” Coulson said, standing up with a frown. “I’ve been in transit and debriefings. I just got back an hour ago.” He gestured back toward the kitchen. “There’s pizza. I would have waited for you, but I was starving.”

Clint wanted to punch himself in the mouth for wallowing in his own misery all week while Coulson was off saving lives and stuck without a real bed or a decent meal. “Sure. Thanks. Welcome back.”

“Are you alright?” Coulson asked. “You look worn out.”

“Gee, thanks.” Clint brushed past him into the kitchen and swiped a piece of room-temperature pizza out of the box. His appetite was a distant memory, but eating gave him something to do that wasn’t running away or reaching for Marian, neither of which would be good for anyone. “Guessing the op went fine, seeing as you’re still alive.”

Coulson scooped Marian off the floor, wrapped in the purple fleece, and came to stand in the kitchen with Clint. Her little hands waved in Clint’s direction, and he chewed on his pizza, pretending not to notice. With Coulson back, he hoped the crying jags would stop, but he couldn’t stand the thought of having her start up again the moment he touched her.

Frowning, Coulson said, “It was a clusterf- a disaster, actually, but we got everyone out in one piece.” Gently, he brushed away Marian’s hands. “Wait a minute, sweetheart. Daddy’s eating.”

The pizza tasted like sawdust in Clint’s mouth. He gestured at Marian. “She missed you. Wouldn’t stop crying.”

The way Coulson brightened made the cracks in Clint’s heart split wider. “Is that right, Marian? Did you miss me?” Marian turned toward the sound of his voice and gripped his collar in one tiny hand, grunting as she flailed the other at Clint. “Right now, I think she’s more interested in you.”

“More interested in my food,” Clint said, and he told himself that it wasn’t important. She was safe and happy and not crying, and that was all that mattered.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Coulson asked, and Clint rolled his eyes.

“Jesus. Yes. I’m fine,” he grumbled. “Like I said, she’s been crying all week, so fuck me if I’m a little beat.”

Coulson blinked, looking at Marian, who was still waving toward Clint. “Well she seems fine now. Did you talk to the doctor?”

The doctor. Of course he should have called the doctor, because crying like that might be a sign of something more than just unhappiness. Clint felt sick. “N- no. I didn’t... I mean, she didn’t have a fever or anything, and she seemed okay, except... I really think she just missed you.” _And didn’t want me._

“I suppose that much change could make a baby anxious,” Coulson said. “But we’re okay now, aren’t we, Marian? Everybody’s home, and we can all get a good night’s sleep.”

Clint doubted that, but he just brushed the crumbs off of his hands and said, “Sleep sounds great.”

“Sleep sounds _amazing_ ,” Coulson agreed. “Here, take her for a minute, and I’ll get her dinner ready.”

He moved to hand Marian over, and Clint recoiled. “It’s fine. I can get it.”

Coulson froze, stunned as Clint starting taking small containers out of the refrigerator. They were out of formula, of course, and Clint had forgotten to prep her meals for the week. Of course. There was enough for her dinner, but he’d have to go to the store before breakfast.

“Actually, if you could just...” Coulson ducked his head, trying to catch Clint’s eye. “I fractured my wrist, and it’s starting to ache, so I really need t-” Clint dragged over Marian’s high chair and opened the attachments so that Coulson could set her down. “Oh. Or that. Thank you.”

“Outta formula. Gonna go to the store. Need anything?” Clint was already tugging on his boots before Coulson could answer. 

“I... No. Well, probably, but... Clint, can y-”

“Back in a minute,” Clint said, and he told himself it wasn’t running away if he planned on coming back.

***

The doctors’ visits of Clint’s childhood had never been regular, routine, or pleasant, and the pediatrician’s office, with its pictures of smiling mothers and babies, never failed to make his skin itch. The only circumstances under which Clint had been taken to the doctor were any illness or injury that couldn’t be cured with bed rest and an ice pack, which usually meant that he was either abjectly miserable or that his father had been especially vicious. It wasn’t a positive association.

Marian, on the other hand, seemed to love her regular check-ups with Dr. Bhardwaj, despite being poked and prodded. She bounced happily on the padded table beside Clint and babbled during every pause in conversation, her little hand gripping the side of Clint’s shirt.

“She’s still a bit small for her age, but her muscle development is right where it should be,” Bhardwaj said, gently feeling Marian’s arms and legs. Marian watched her intently and made a questioning sound as the doctor carefully touched her head and neck. “It’s alright, baby girl. I’m just checking.”

“Yeah, they said she’d probably stay pretty small ‘cause of the... Well, ‘cause I was...” Clint faltered.

“Because of malnutrition in early pregnancy,” Bhardwaj supplied kindly, giving Clint a warm smile. “The good news is that, otherwise, she’s about as healthy as a baby can be. Her motor and language skills seem to be coming along normally, and her responsiveness is even a little ahead of the curve. She’s still moving around a lot?”

Clint nodded. “Seems like she never stops. Always wants to go somewhere or check things out.”

Marian looked up at the sound of his voice and grinned her big, toothless smile. Clint smiled back and smoothed his hand over her little curls of auburn hair. Aside from her big dark eyes, she bore an odd resemblance to his brother, which struck Clint by turns as heart-wrenching and unfortunate.

“Tiny and ambitious. Sounds like you’re going to have a troublemaker on your hands. Isn’t that right, Marian?” Bhardwaj asked, and Marian turned to her with the same wide grin. “You’ve probably got some time before she really starts walking, but you might want to go ahead and baby-proof all of the cabinets and anything she can reach,” she told Clint.

“Already done.” Coulson had had the baby locks installed before they’d even moved in and made sure that anything sharp, heavy, or breakable was well out of child-reach the moment Marian had started crawling. Clint would have to remember to stop leaving his quiver on the floor.

"Good. A little preparation will make your life a lot easier," she said. "Not _easy_ , obviously, but easier."

"Easier is good. We like easier." Clint hesitated, then said, "She, uh, she started crying again."

Bhardwaj frowned. "The same way she did before?"

"Not exactly. I mean, y'know, Coulson was away for a little while, and she... I guess she was upset that he was gone." A month later, Clint was still afraid to touch her, to be left alone with her, terrified that the tears would start again. "I couldn't get her to stop til he came home."

Bhardwaj hummed thoughtfully. "Were you upset that he was gone?"

Clint blinked. "I... Yeah, sort of. I mean, he's so good at this sh- stuff, and the best I can do is mash her peas."

"She might have been picking up on your anxiety. Babies can be very sensitive to their parents’ emotions, especially as close as you two are." 

That should have made him feel less like a terrible parent, Clint thought, but it made him feel worse. Given the typical state of his emotions, he hated the thought of Marian sensing any of the poison inside him. "Sure. Yeah. I guess that makes sense."

Bhardwaj shrugged. "Or maybe she just doesn't like the way you smell. Try changing your soap or deodorant or something. Sometimes that helps." She held out a jar of candy, and Clint gave her a questioning look. “I keep them for patients, but Marian’s a little young, yet. Besides, I like to reward good parenting.”

Clint rifled a little bit through the choices until he found a caramel and stuck it in his pocket. Coulson liked caramels.

After the appointment, he took a cab back to the apartment, silent and thoughtful as Marian babbled away in her carrier and watched the buildings pass through the window. In the back of his mind, he suspected this was a preview of years to come, and he imagined car rides home from school with Marian telling him about her day and her classes and who said what to whom. Even in his pensive dejection, Clint smiled.

When Coulson came home that evening, Marian was playing in her castle while Clint heated up frozen something-or-other for the grown-ups' dinner, and he asked Coulson point-blank, “Do I smell?”

Coulson froze, halfway through toeing off his shoes, and stared at Clint. “Do you _what_?”

“Do I smell? As in, like, BO.” Clint busied himself with wiping down the counters so he didn’t have to look up as he went on, “It’s just that you and Kate both joke about it, and Wu made a crack a few weeks ago. Then today the doctor said something about Marian not liking my smell, and I just... I dunno. I mean, you’d tell me, right?”

After a moment, he glanced up to find Coulson wearing the blank expression he got when he was trying to word something in a way that wouldn’t make Clint freak out. It was almost insulting how often that expression appeared. In this instance, the meaning behind it hit Clint like a punch.

“Oh my god, I do.”

Coulson took a step forward, hands raised in pleading. “Clint...”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Clint demanded. “Is that why Marian keeps crying? Is that why nobody touches me? Holy shit, I’m _that guy_. Why didn’t you tell me I was that guy?”

“You’re not _that guy_ , you’re just...” Coulson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just that American cultural standards typically dictate showering at least once every one to three days, depending on climate, occupation, and personal preference.” He hesitated. “The application of deodorant is also encouraged, especially for people who are physically active.”

Clint gaped. He could feel his face getting hot, and he looked back down at the kitchen counter. “Oh. I didn’t... I mean, I don’t...”

"It's not offensive," Coulson assured him gently. "It's just... noticeable." 

"Never noticed. Never thought about it," Clint said. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because your personal habits are no one else's business." Coulson came to stand beside him, not touching but close enough that his own subtle scent was a familiar warmth. "Besides, I like the way you smell." 

Clint snorted. "At this point, that could be Stockholm Syndrome." 

"I like to think it's an acquired taste." 

"Isn't that kinda the same thing?" 

"Maybe," Coulson admitted, leaning in to catch Clint's eye. "Listen, the truth is that your experiences have given you a different view of the world. Sometimes that's a good thing, but you've missed out on a lot of things that other people take for granted." 

Clint scowled. "Like lessons in personal hygiene?" 

"Like the chance to shower regularly," Coulson said. "I'd guess that once a week would have been a luxury for most of your life." 

Once a month was closer to the truth, Clint thought, maybe weekly when he’d been little. In the circus, they’d always scrubbed him up for performances, but that was just his face and hair so that he didn’t look like an urchin. The rest of the time, he’d just tried to stay clean enough not to get sick or to wash off the residue of whatever had been done to him recently.

He laughed bitterly. “You wanna know something stupid?” he asked, and Coulson frowned. “I have to shower with my clothes on. Fucking swim trunks and a t-shirt. Sometimes I don’t even take off my binder. How dumb is that?”

“It’s not dumb,” Coulson told him, so much more gently than Clint was prepared for. “Do you... Do you mind if I ask why?”

Clint shook his head. He knew why; he knew _exactly_ why. He could remember the last time he’d showered naked in vivid, terrible detail, but the thought of explaining that to Coulson, who had the temerity to act like Clint was special and worth his time, made Clint’s throat close up. He just managed to whisper, “Can’t look at myself.”

As if waiting for that awful beat of silence, the oven timer beeped, but Coulson stopped Clint as he reached for the stove. “If you don’t mind,” Coulson said softly, “I’d like to hug you.”

Clint forced himself not to flinch away. He lived in a constant war between wanting people to touch him and freaking out when they did, but Coulson... But it was Coulson. Slowly, Clint nodded.

Expecting a normal, one-armed hug across his shoulders, he was surprised when Coulson pulled him in close and held on tightly, as if Clint was something he’d lost and then found again. His fingers slid into Clint’s hair, gentle and soothing, and he pressed his temple against Clint’s cheek, like all he wanted in the world was to anchor Clint to this spot and this moment with nothing but his own body and strength of feeling. Even if Clint could have remembered the last time someone had hugged him, he knew beyond doubt that he’d never been held like this, that no one had ever touched him with such absolute affection or with such sincere need to just make him feel better.

He barely noticed when he started crying, and he didn’t know how long it was until he stopped. All he knew was that Coulson never let him go, and that, when it was done, he felt a little cleaner.

***

When Marian was nine months old, she caught her first cold. It wasn't even a real cold, just a stuffy nose and a sore throat that she picked up from Coulson, but for a tiny baby, unused to discomfort, it might have been the end of the world.

"I guess we're lucky she's been so healthy," Coulson remarked, punctuating the comment with a sneeze. He was camped out in a nest of blankets and pillows on the bathroom floor, rocking Marian in his arms. They'd filled the bathroom with steam in an effort to ease her congestion, and the heat combined with the enclosed echo of Marian's cries made it seem like an upper circle of hell. 

"Are you feeling particularly lucky, at the moment?" Clint asked dryly. He tossed a tablet in the shower that made the room smell like something Coulson had informed him was eucalyptus. "Because I feel like I'm being punished for crimes against humanity." 

"Just imagine if this was the fifth time we were doing this, instead of the first." 

Marian let out a fresh wail of misery, and Clint shuddered. "Point taken." 

Dr. Bhardwaj had assured them there was nothing to worry about, that a little patience and a lot of fluids would have her feeling better in about ten days. This was day four.

“Okay, I’ve got the little nose thing, and there’s some juice water in the fridge. You just have to get her settled,” Clint said, and Coulson gave him an irritated look.

“ _I_ have to get her settled? No. I’ve been doing this for three days. It’s your turn.” He leaned forward to hand Marian over, and Clint took a step back, knots forming in his stomach.

“I don’t... It’ll be fine. Just give it a minute with the steam.” Clint had managed to hold her a few times without incident, but only on good days, when there was nothing to upset her. He didn’t know how he could make it worse now, but he was sure that he would somehow. She was already hurting so bad that the thought made him sick.

Still holding up Marian, who was flushed and flailing unhappily, Coulson heaved an exhausted sigh. “I’m tired, my ears are ringing, my arm hurts, I can’t breathe through my nose, and I need to pee. Clint, _please_ just take her.”

What had been miserable was suddenly a nightmare. If he held Marian, Clint was sure to be hurting her, but leaving her meant abandoning Coulson to his own pain. He would have frozen, panicked, but Coulson took the choice out of his hands.

"Come on, sweetheart, time to go see your daddy." 

He reached up, and Clint found himself reaching instinctively in return, even as he protested, "I'm not... I can't..." 

Then Marian was in his arms, still crying, and Clint’s heart stopped. Her wrinkled pink face was streaked with snot and tears, and her big dark eyes were wet and red as she stared up at him, gasping for breath between thin hiccuping sobs. Clint longed with all his heart to make all her hurt go away, to love her enough to keep her healthy and happy forever. She was so small and fragile, so easily damaged. He’d been shot, beaten, stabbed, fallen from awful heights, and nearly drowned, at least once for every almost-death, and nothing terrified him more than doing harm to his little girl.

He forced himself to breathe as the thick hot air caught in his throat, measuring the rise and fall of his chest in a steady rhythm. The knots in his stomach were a twisting mess, but Clint beat them back and tried to think of calm, soothing things. Cool water in the summer, fresh fletching between his fingers, the taste of chocolate ice cream, the smell of baby soap, clean sheets on a warm bed, unexpected laughter. 

Marian was still tiny enough that his hand covered her chest and stomach when he laid it over her, massaging gently as he hummed a half-remembered tune from before he’d been punched in the ears too many times. There weren’t many good things left in his head, but he tried to put all of them into his breathing and his touch, letting them seep into her like a balm. Slowly, painfully, the crying petered out into small whimpers and weak, pitiful coughs.

Clint let out a deep sigh of relief and reached for the nasal drainer, aware that Coulson was watching him with a strange expression. Marian suffered having her nose seen to with a little bit of flailing and grunted unhappily as Clint carefully wiped her face with a damp cloth, but the sound stayed small, despite her continued misery.

Cool air from the hallway rushed over her as Clint opened the bathroom door, and she curled a little tighter into his chest. He had to pause and make his heart work again before he went on into the kitchen, where she drank her juice-and-water greedily and promptly fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. 

Coulson followed him silently into the bedroom and arranged the blankets to tilt up the mattress so that Clint could lay her down. With Piggy safely tucked beside her, the two adults slipped out of the room, and Coulson pulled the door closed with a muted _click_.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension still strung tight, and Clint was too caught up in the conflict in his own head to even guess what Coulson was thinking. Then suddenly Coulson was kissing him, and Clint’s whole universe stopped making sense.

It wasn’t that Clint had never been kissed before, but it had never occurred to him that he could be kissed like this, with certainty and adoration and unbearable softness. Warmth blossomed in his chest at the same time that the shock of being touched and crowded by Coulson’s body sparked terror up his spine. Clint’s fight instinct overrode his impulse to sink into the kiss, and he pushed Coulson roughly away.

“O-oh my god,” Coulson stammered. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

“What the fuck?”

"I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry," Coulson apologized again. "I can... If you want me to leave..." 

" _Why?_ " Clint demanded. "Why would you do that?" 

Coulson's face turned bright red. "I didn't... I didn't mean to, I just... It's just that I think I'm in love with you, and..." He shook his head. "No, I _know_ I am, but it's not... I thought that..." He shook his head again and scrubbed both hands over his face. "Fuck. I am so sorry." 

Clint took a step back, gaping at him. "Bullshit." 

“It’s not...”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” he repeated. “Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t just fucking say shit like that.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I am. It’s just that...” Coulson gave him that look again, unfamiliar and unreadable. “It’s just that you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met. After everything you’ve been through and all the shit you deal with every day, you still have this... You’re just so... You’re funny and kind and _alive_ , and you’re an amazing father. Things that would have anyone else paralyzed, you just push through, no matter what, and you... You don’t see it. You have no idea how remarkable and brilliant and fucking _gorgeous_ you are, and how much brighter everything is when you’re there. You make me feel like I can be better, like I can be more, like I have to be more just to keep up, and I...” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Clint stared at him blankly. The words all registered, but none of them made sense, like Coulson was talking about someone else and had mistaken Clint for the subject of his adoration. “Is this a joke?” Clint asked.

Coulson blinked. “What?”

“Are you fucking with me? You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No! Christ, no. Of course not.”

“Do you wanna fuck me?” If it wasn’t a joke, then the logical explanation was the Coulson was saying shit to get in Clint’s pants. He didn’t know which was worse.

Coulson went still, his expression carefully neutral as he answered slowly, “I’m not asking for anything. I love you, and I’m attracted to you. Yes, all things being equal, I want very much to make love to you, but that’s n-”

Clint pushed past him, walking as fast as he could for the front door. He nearly started running when Coulson followed him, but he made himself take deliberate steps and didn’t turn at the sound of his name. The apartment door slammed with enough force to make one of their neighbors peek out as Clint made his way to the stairwell, instinct driving him up the stairs and to the roof.

He didn’t have a plan, didn’t have an escape route; he just had to get out, away, anywhere but there. He needed to be somewhere no one could reach him, and he just kept going up until he found himself huddled in the support bars of a billboard on top of the next building.

The August evening was bright and balmy. Thin clouds drifted across the pink and blue sky as the sun sank behind the silver skyline. Clint closed his eyes and leaned his head against one of the steel bars, letting the summer heat and the distant urban roar wash over him. He was alone. He was safe. He could think.

His mind shied away from the touch of lips against his and went instead to Marian, soft and quiet in his arms, her crying calmed by... something other than Clint’s pitiful attempts to soothe her, surely. But she _had_ calmed. She’d let him hold her and give her what he could, and he’d felt just a little bit like a father for the first time, like maybe he could be her _daddy_ and not just the loser who forced her into the world.

Like her poppa, like Coulson, who was perfect and prepared and loved her absolutely, who was her real father in a way that Clint could never be. Coulson, who had sat in a diner across the table from a broken stranger and offered a new world, who had given Clint everything he could have ever dreamed of needing and never once asked for anything more than a few signatures and some patience.

Coulson had never hurt him, had actively gone out of his way to make Clint feel safe at every turn, had fucking moved into a new apartment to take care of a kid that wasn’t his just so Clint would have someone around that he trusted. The instinct to push him away and run had been exactly that: instinctive, a fear response from Clint's misconditioned brain. When he went back inside, Clint had no doubt that the first words out of Coulson's mouth would be an apology and an offer to move out.

The idea that anyone could possibly be in love with him was laughable to Clint, but he didn’t think Coulson was lying, except maybe to himself. For a second, Clint let himself entertain the possibility and tried to imagine life with a partner who cared about him, a daughter who didn't cry when he held her, a home and a family and stretches of days where he didn't want to barricade himself on top of a tower for the rest of his life. He thought about kissing Coulson again, with intent and without surprise, and he didn't immediately want to vomit. Or he did, but not with the same anxious sickness he normally felt at the thought of being kissed and touched and... 

Clint sighed and curled into himself, longing for a clearer target and better visibility. 

It was full dark by the time he felt ready to face whatever was waiting for him inside. At least, he thought he was ready, but he hadn't prepared himself to find Coulson shambling in circles around the living room with Marian sobbing in his arms. Coulson glanced at Clint, eyes tight and shadowed, and went back to soothing Marian, who turned to wave her tiny fist at Clint.

This time, Clint didn't allow himself to hesitate. He took Marian gently and told Coulson, "Sit down before you pass out."

It was a sign of Coulson's exhaustion that he obeyed without protest. "She woke up a little while ago," he explained wearily. "I changed her diaper, but I think the crying is making her throat worse, so she keeps crying."

Clint hummed in reply and rocked her gently, thumbing away the tears from her flushed cheeks. His mind was calmer now, after his hours of escape, and it was easy to forget everything in the world beyond his baby girl. "I know. I know it hurts," he told her quietly, because if there was anything Clint understood, it was being in pain. "It's gonna be okay, though. It won't hurt forever. I promise."

Her big dark eyes were fixed on him, her attention drawn by the sound of his voice, and her tiny mouth was screwed up in a scowl, like she wanted to stop and couldn't figure out how. Clint seemed to lose track of the minutes as he stood there, breathing in and out and thinking of nothing but the warm beat of her heart under his hand. Slowly, her hoarse sobs started to fade into vague mewls of unhappiness, and she tugged at the front of his shirt as if warning him not to let her go just yet.

"Don't worry. I'm still here," he assured her. He looked up to find Coulson watching him from the couch with an entirely new expression. Clint wondered if they could just avoid the subject entirely, but he figured that pulling the bandaid off was probably better and sank onto the couch beside Coulson. "So."

"I sublet my apartment, so I need to find a place to stay, but I can be out by tomorrow, if that's what you want," Coulson said immediately, steady and professional, like it didn't make a difference one way or the other, but Clint knew him well enough to see the line between his brows as the sign of distress that it was.

Clint sighed. "You don't have to leave. I appreciate it, but it's not... I don't want you to leave."

Coulson met his eye for the first time since he'd come back, frowning. "You don't."

"I really don't." Clint tried for a smile and came up with a flinch. "Sorry I kinda freaked out."

"You had every right to freak out," Coulson told him. "You could have stabbed me and been well within your rights. You could report me for assault or have me investigated for manipulating a subordinate. You c-"

"Okay, I get the picture. You fucked up." Marian gave a wet grumble, and Clint turned to her. "Your poppa's a big, awkward dork, kid. I hate to tell ya." That got a small huff out of Coulson and a puzzled murmur from Marian. "But I'm a big, awkward dork, too, so we might be kinda fucked."

"You're not a dork," Coulson said, and Clint gave him a look. "Alright maybe a little, but in a charming way."

Clint snorted. "Charming. Sure. It's real charming how I can't fucking kiss somebody without flipping my shit."

"It's part of your unique appeal," Coulson deadpanned, and Clint managed a real smile.

"Knew you had a thing for freaks."

Whatever humor had crept into Coulson's face vanished. "Please don't say that. I don't... I surprised you and made you uncomfortable. You flipped your shit because I did something wrong, not because there's something wrong with you."

Clint thought that was splitting hairs, but he knew better than to argue. He nodded, and Marian made a small babble of impatience, tugging at his shirt again. "What is it, kid? You want some juice?"

"I can get it," Coulson said, rising, but Clint waved him down.

"You're beat. You gotta take care of yourself, too." Clint was more than aware of the irony in that statement, but Coulson let it pass. Once he was armed with a sippy cup and a slightly less grumpy baby, Clint returned to the couch and Coulson's searching stare.

"So now that you've had a chance to freak out..." Coulson prompted. When Clint hesitated, he went on quickly, "Please don't think I expect anything. Because I don't. At all. And I understand that just because you don't want me to move out doesn't mean that you're... that you're anything. I'll move into the other bedroom, obviously. I don't want you t-"

"For fuck's sake, would you shut up? You're gonna give yourself a heart attack." Clint cut him off. Despite the tension, he found himself smiling at Coulson's nervous sincerity. "Nothing's gonna change, okay? I mean, you never made a move on me before. No reason to think you'd try anything now."

"I wouldn't. I won't," Coulson promised. "I swear I would never touch you without your permission."

"I think..." Clint took a deep breath. This was new ground for him, an entirely new kind of existence, and he felt dizzy. "I think maybe I wanna give you permission?"

The look that crossed Coulson's face was at once delighted and horrified. " _Really?_ "

"I don't know," Clint admitted, chewing on his lip. "Maybe yes? It's just... I've never, y'know, really wanted anybody enough to try. Sure as fuck never wanted anybody that wanted _me_. Not even sure what that would feel like."

There was a long pause, and a part of Clint kept waiting for Coulson to laugh and tell him that it really was a joke or a test or something. When Coulson finally broke the silence, he said simply, "Take your time."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "That's it? That's all you've got? _Take my time?_ "

Marian burped loudly, and Coulson gave them both a smile of fond exasperation. "Clint, the idea that you would even consider _trying_ to have a relationship with me is, frankly, mind-blowing. I'm willing to do whatever you want, whenever you want it, if there's even a possibility that you could ever..." He drew back, flushing. "Sorry. That's... I realize that's a little intense."

Clint blinked back at him, stunned, and shook his head. “I don’t know how much time it’s gonna take.”

Coulson just smiled again and tugged gently at one of Marian’s feet. She gave an annoyed kick and went back to slurping out the dregs of her sippy cup. “Take as much as you need,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

***

From the beginning, Clint's first priority had been Marian. Even when she was nothing but a promise and a protective instinct growing inside him, he'd bound himself to SHIELD for the sole purpose of keeping her safe. Sometimes, on lazy evenings, he forgot about the contract hanging over his domestic equilibrium, forgot that he'd traded freelance violence to go professional.

The reminder came abruptly in October when Clint and three other recruits were tapped for a training mission, and Clint was assigned as group leader. Coulson spent the two weeks before the mission beaming and generally looking smug.

“I knew it. I knew you’d run circles around the rest of them.” he told Clint, adding to Marian, “Did you know your daddy was special? I bet you did. I bet you know it better than anybody else.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Literally everyone in ops training has to do this. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m going to set out a jar and make you put a quarter in it every time you say something’s _not a big deal_ ,” Coulson said. “Most recruits aren’t called up for missions until their fourth year. You haven’t even been training for two, and you spent part of that time recovering from a gunshot wound and having a baby. The fact that you're anywhere near field-ready, much less ready for a lead position, is remarkable." 

Clint grunted vaguely, and went over the mission specs for the fifteenth time that day, adamantly ignoring the heat rising on his face. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed between he and Coulson since... well, since everything had changed. Coulson still gave him plenty of space and never touched him unexpectedly, but now Clint could see the caution and care in the distance, not the casual detachment he’d assumed. 

It was like he’d learned a new language and suddenly saw its letters and phrases everywhere. The smiles and words were the same, but where he had understood simple affection, he could read the comfort and devotion that must have always been there. Even Marian, in the way that she reached and babbled, had the vocabulary for a dialect Clint had never learned, and now that he had seen the structure of its syntax, he realized that he was absolutely immersed in expressions of love. Like all of the other languages Clint could read, though, he had no idea how to speak it in reply.

“I’ll be surprised if you aren’t given a clearance by the end of the year,” Coulson went on, ignoring Clint’s embarrassment. “You’ll be running priority ops in no time, especially with Hill handling your assignments.”

Clint would have preferred to stay under Coulson’s command, but SHIELD’s fraternization policy, which was evidently pretty relaxed, had something to say about SOs and assets and abuse of power. As a result, Clint had been handed off to Hill who, according to rumor, _never_ took on junior recruits. This was another thing that other people seemed to think was a big deal. Clint just knew that he liked Hill, so it worked out alright.

“Just wanna do the job,” Clint said. “Don’t care about titles and ranks and shit.” 

There was a pause, then Coulson answered quietly, “I know you don’t.” The look he gave Clint was familiar and would have been unreadable but for Clint’s new understanding. The look he gave Clint was adoring. It made Clint feel feverish, warm and itching and unsure. He put his head down and tried to focus on the mission instead of all the new meanings in his head.

It was a simple retrieval op, in and out, no contact and no casualties, but Clint knew better than anyone how badly a simple plan could go wrong. He was more than a little surprised when it didn't.

At least, it didn’t go as wrong as it could have, all things considered. One of the recruits broke her arm in a bad fall, the lead agent got stabbed in the foot, Clint was stuck in his blind for seven hours and got heat stroke, and they ended up in a shootout with a bunch of very angry arms dealers. But they got the package and no one died, so the general consensus was that they won.

Despite the lingering dizziness and nausea, Clint was feeling generally positive until, on the transport back to base, one of the other recruits, a young guy named Douglas, suddenly snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “You were the guy that was pregnant! That’s it. That’s why I know who you are.” Douglas shook his head. “Man, that was driving me crazy. I knew I recognized you.”

Clint didn’t roll his eyes, but only because it would have made his headache worse. “Uh huh.”

“So how the hell did that happen?” Douglas asked. “I mean, I heard all kinds of shit, but you know how people are with gossip.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, he whispered, “Was it an experiment? Did RND grab you, or something?”

Clint found a window to stare out of and answered flatly, “No.”

“I heard it was magic,” another recruit put in. 

One of the level four agents on their detail looked from the others to Clint with a frown. “Holy shit. Are you Hawkeye? The guy Coulson brought in?”

Clint continued to look through the window and refused to sigh. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit,” the agent said again. “Your range scores are _insane_.” Clint nearly allowed himself a smile, but the agent added, “Yeah, I’m going with RND experiment. There’s no way this guy is fully human.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. He wondered how much of a badass he’d have to be to outrun that piece of his reputation or if everything he accomplished would be overshadowed by lingering rumors.

“Dude, did you give birth to a baby super soldier?” Douglas asked, and Clint shot him a withering glare. “Hey, I’m just asking.”

“So stop asking,” Clint snapped.

Nodding sagely, the agent observed, “Classified, right? All that shit’s classified.”

“What the experiment was for would be classified, not whether it was an experiment to start with,” the second recruit pointed out. “I mean, it’s not like they tried to hide him.”

“Okay, come on, just settle this for us. Experiment or magic?” Douglas pressed.

“Because that’s the only two ways a guy could have a baby, right?” Clint grumbled. “Gotta be something weird. Gotta be some kind of freak.”

Douglas frowned. “So why don’t you just tell us?”

“Why don’t you just fuck off?” Clint shot back.

From the front of the transport, Agent Quartermain called, “Barton, is there a problem?”

Clint gave Douglas a hard look and answered, “No, sir. No problem.”

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, but Clint knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. The next mission, the next ops team, even if no one said a word, there would always be sideways glances and whispers he couldn’t hear. No matter how well he passed, he would always be a little bit separate, just outside the standard parameters.

Suddenly, he wanted to be sitting on the couch with Coulson, Marian curled up his lap, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. He wanted his sleep pants and the giant purple coffee mug Coulson had given him for his birthday. He wanted Marian’s tiny hand curled around his finger and her big gaping smile. He wanted Coulson’s laughter and the thick-rimmed glasses that no one but Clint ever got to see. He wanted them so much that his stomach ached, and Clint wondered if this was what it felt like to be homesick.

It was Sunday evening by the time he stumbled into the apartment, exhausted and tense, and was met with the piercing scream of an unhappy baby. Coulson didn’t even look up as Clint came in, apparently pleading with Marian for a respite. Bits of cereal and mashed food dotted the kitchen floor like debris from an ongoing battle, and the tray of Marian’s high chair bore evidence of the current conflict.

“Sweetheart, please. Just for a minute. I promise you’ll feel better if you eat,” Coulson was begging, but Marian showed no sign of even slowing down.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” Clint said, and Coulson jumped, turning so fast that he nearly fell off his chair. Whatever Marian was supposed to be eating was spattered across Coulson’s shirt, and one lucky shot had caught the lense of his glasses. “She’s gonna go until she’s good and ready to stop,” Clint went on, trying not to smile. “You just have to catch her before she falls asleep.”

Coulson opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off as Marian raised her arms toward Clint and wailed, “Daddy!”

Clint stopped dead in his tracks.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Marian was still crying, but her distress now seemed to be focused on Clint, rather than the universe in general. “Daddy! Daddy!”

Clint blinked. “Is she...?”

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Coulson sighed. “She started right after you left. It was heart-warming until about three o’clock the next morning.”

Marian bounced in her seat, waving at Clint with increasing insistence. “ _Daddy!_ Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

He could definitely see where that would lose its charm pretty quickly, but Clint was too stunned to do anything but stand and stare. “Did... Has she said anything else?”

“No. Just that. Over and over.” Coulson rubbed miserably at his eyes. “And crying. Jesus _Christ_. Is this what you put up with when I was gone?”

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Pretty much. No words, though,” Clint replied vaguely, still distracted by Marian.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Somehow, she got a fistful of Coulson’s hair and tugged, even as she kept demanding, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Fuck! Shit! Fucking _ow_!” Coulson swore, trying to extract himself gently from her grip. “No, no, no, sweetheart. Marian, please let go. Let go of poppa’s hair.”

Clint felt a tiny bit bad about laughing, but that didn’t stop him. He dropped his gear and went to Coulson’s aid, carefully prying open the surprisingly strong little fingers. Marian stared up at him with her dark eyes, fat tears gathered at the corners, her pink mouth trembling, and sobbed, “Daddy?”

And that was it. That was the moment Clint died and was reborn as _daddy_. Everything he ever had been and ever would be was completely and utterly subsumed by this new identity and his devotion to this tiny little person. He crouched down so that his face was just below hers and said softly, “Hey, kid.”

She wrapped one of his fingers in each of her hands and flailed, her tears dissipating. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Fucking finally,” Coulson muttered, leaning back in his chair. His face was lined with familiar weariness and frustration, softened by blessed relief. “She’s been crying for _days_. Even when she’s not crying, I can still hear her crying. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Marian snuffled grumpily, but she opened her mouth for the spoonful of mashed something-or-other that Clint held up for her. Clint smiled, and he felt like he was dying all over again when she smiled back.

Coulson huffed. “Of course. You waltz in, and suddenly she’s an angel child. And she was never like this before. She’s always been so good, I had _no idea_ how unprepared I was for dealing with this. It’s like a nightmare." Marian slapped her hands happily on the plastic tray, and Coulson scowled. "Everything's fine now that daddy's here. Obviously." 

He was so out of sorts and so perfect, and Clint couldn't help but lean forward to kiss him. He made a muffled sound of surprise, but he immediately relaxed against Clint’s mouth, soft and open. The kiss was slow and easy, sweet in a way Clint hadn't known kisses could be. Without the shock and panic, Clint found that he could savor the rasp and catch of Coulson's dry lips and taste the lingering flavors of chocolate and tea. Clint decided, as he started to pull away, that he definitely wanted more of this.

Coulson stared at Clint, stunned, baby food spattered on his glasses, and Clint kissed him again because he wanted to and because he could. Clint felt something damp hit the side of his face and broke away to find Marian grinning wickedly with both hands shoved in her mouth.

“You need something?” he drawled, and Coulson snorted.

She pulled her hands out of her mouth long enough to giggle and announce, “Daddy! Daddy eat!” 

Clint and Coulson exchanged a look. “Well, she’s got her priorities straight,” Coulson observed. He seemed to be searching for something in Clint’s eyes, and Clint tried to let him see everything that was there. Coulson swallowed. “So.”

Clint ducked his head. “So I, uh, guess I made up my mind.”

Coulson's answering smile did something to ease the doubt still weighing down Clint's stomach and made a strangely familiar warmth flicker up in his chest. "Are you sure?" Coulson asked. Clint nodded. "Well, okay then."

Marian hiccupped and squealed, apparently amused with herself. “Daddy! Daddy! Eat! Eat!”

Coulson sighed. “It’s a good thing you’re cute,” he told her, and she laughed, kicking her tiny feet so that the high chair bounced. Clint reached out to steady it, and she grabbed his hand and gave him a big, gaping grin.

**Author's Note:**

> What I thought was one fic turned into two, so yes, there's going to be more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When Your Soul Embarks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189326) by [laurenthian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurenthian/pseuds/laurenthian)




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